


I Am Waiting (Should I Be Waiting?) / Make Us Better

by irisbleufic



Category: Back to the Future (Movies), Back to the Future: The Game
Genre: 1930s, 1980s, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon Character of Color, Canon Compliant, F/M, Films, First Kiss, First Time, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Science Fiction, Video & Computer Games, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3266666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Life can be short, sometimes brutally so.  Why not seize the day and grab your happiness while you can?"</i>
</p><p>—Telltale Games, <i>Back to the Future</i> (Episode 4: Double Visions)</p><p>
  <span class="small">[Titles and section epigraphs taken from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cm6xtkX_Dvs"><i>A Beginning Song</i></a> and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yb8oUbMrydk"><i>Make You Better</i></a> respectively.]</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Am Waiting (Should I Be Waiting?)

**Author's Note:**

> On my first pass at writing _BTTF_ , I was relying solely on the films and **[stranded Marty in 1955](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3127463)**. This time around, I'm fascinated by the universe-extension provided by the Telltale Games _Back to the Future_ interactive adventure that was released in five episodes from 2010 – 2011 ([ **watch the full 7-hour walk-through here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8X0tp_VTlM); if you prefer, there's a more segmented version showing more of the menu-option outcomes [**here**](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLCdcBwzARVX2Dx4NFNcrCy4XNP79Qaxwz)), and I'm stranding Marty in the 1930s. I've tried to write this such that you don't need to have experienced the game; what you really need to know is that, in the game, we meet Emmett as a young man (seventeen-going-on-eighteen, just like Marty). Emmett and Marty interact a great deal in the game's 1931 timeline, but, for my purposes, I'm shifting it to 1938, because I'm stubborn enough to insist on film-'verse dates (i.e. Doc was born in 1920; that means that in the game universe he'd only be turning 11 in 1931, but clearly he's about to turn 18, so 1938 it is). The hilarity of it all was that I kept seeing fan art of Marty with this lanky redhead, and I kept thinking, _What's going on here? This is freaking adorable. Is this how people picture Doc when he was young? I believe it._ And then it turned out to be art referencing the game, etc. For [myfavoriteismike](http://myfavoriteismike.tumblr.com/) (and [neverrwhere](http://neverrwhere.tumblr.com/)), who eloquently prompted: _The idea of Marty staying in the past and finding Doc before he’s really become Doc is fascinating. I can imagine Marty waiting around for teenage Emmett to turn into the person he remembers, just being so lonely, having Doc so close but not really himself. Maybe see how love unfolds in this scenario where Marty is trying to come to terms with the idea that the person he knew is still being formed?_ Title and section epigraph quotes taken from closing track ([ ** _A Beginning Song_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cm6xtkX_Dvs)) of the Decemberists' new album. All of the dialogue in the first few paragraphs, up through "I guarantee it," are lifted from the scene in the game that I use as a transition/divergence point for the proceedings of this piece.

**October 13, 1938**

 

 _Let's commence to coordinate our sights,_  
_get them square to rights,_  
_get them square to rights._

 

You could only lose someone so many times, Marty reasoned, before the knowledge of death, the witnessing of disappearance, took on a quality so surreal as to be meaningless. No sooner had Doc's hand ( _That wasn't really him_ , some corner of Marty's consciousness insisted, reminding him) dissolved to nothingness between his own than the high-school doors were thrown wide, accompanied by an explosion and dismayed uproar from the Hill Valley Science Expo crowd inside.

Marty squinted through the cloud of debris at the lone figure that emerged. "Doc?" he ventured uncertainly, daring to hope. It could be that Doc from the future, the _real_ Doc, had returned.

"Marty!" Emmett exclaimed, his freckled face caked in dust, fiery hair blown wild. "Have you been out here the whole time?" His flying car demo, despite its rousing start, had flopped.

"Emmett?" Marty said, appraising Emmett's ash-smudged aviation suit. "Is it over already?"

"Oh, it's over all right," said Emmett, wryly self-deprecating. "You missed a very... _wild_ party. I'm afraid I've been banned from the Expo for the next fifty years. If I were you, I wouldn't go back in, either. At least not until all the broken glass is swept up." His smile only held for so long, and it broke Marty's heart to watch him sigh and turn away. "Oh, _what w_ as I thinking? Naturally the ionic wind generated by an electromagnet of that size is going to play havoc with a merely mechanical steering component. We need a much more advanced control system. I wonder...if we could find a way to translate the body's own gravitational field into electrokinetic force, one might be able to direct the ionic currents simply by shifting one's weight. Great Scott, that's _it_!" His joy had returned in the space of one breathless, freewheeling tangent.

"Then you're—you're not discouraged?" asked Marty, hesitant to believe this dramatic turn.

"Discouraged?" replied Emmett, with perplexity. "By what? You mean what happened in there? _Pshaw_. That was a learning experience!" He grinned and turned again, his auburn hair a chaotic, glinting halo in the late afternoon sun. "The way I see it, it's those little mistakes along the way that advance us along the path of knowledge!" He shook himself, as if remembering where they were and what he must look like. "Come on, there's no time to lose! Let's get back to the lab and—" He paused, uncomfortably rubbing the side of his neck. "I'm sorry," he appealed contritely, moving a few steps back in Marty's direction. "Is something wrong?"

"It's a long story," Marty sighed, arms folded tight. "Let's just say I, _uh_ —I lost somebody."

Emmett's face fell, and it was all Marty could do to keep his gaze trained straight ahead instead of letting his eyes dart back like the desperate, distracted things they were. "Oh, how sad," murmured Emmett, with genuine concern, and it was a kick in the fucking gut that he remained so _earnest_ even after the way Marty had treated him. "Anyone I know?"

"It was, ah," Marty stalled, and what he was about to say was going to sound contrived, "Carl Sagan." Why couldn't Doc have chosen a less ridiculous alias for his ill-fated 1930s jaunt?

"What?" asked Emmett, brows fiercely knit, and stepped in so close that Marty forgot to breathe. "The guy who tried to hire me in there? You were friends with him? Strange, but— _how_?" he demanded, but his tone was more imploring than angry. He'd unwittingly been chloroformed by his older, alternate, vaguely evil self, for Christ's sake, and _still_ he was trusting.

"Don't worry," sighed Marty, and let the matter fade with the now non-existent, scary-as-hell totalitarian alternate-1986 timeline whence it had come. "It's got nothing to do with you."

The sincere, tirelessly searching look that Emmett gave him next would've been enough to disarm even Edna Strickland's famously hard-ass brother, Gerald (who was at this moment no more than a pimply and presumably goody-two-shoes teenager). "You're a complete mystery to me, Marty," he said. "Where you come from, what you're doing here. But there's one thing I _do_ know. Whatever it is, it _does_ have something to do with me." There it was at last: that accusatory edge Marty had heard a thousand times from Doc, _his_ Doc.

"Please, Emmett," Marty begged, swallowing his pride. It was suddenly too much to take, that this kid almost exactly Marty's age was both the man he knew and _not_. "Don't ask any—"

"What's this?" Emmett interjected, bending to retrieve the incriminating, time-shifted newspaper on the ground at Marty's feet. He squinted, attempting to read the headline, but Marty snatched it away as quickly as he could and hid it behind his back. "C'mon, let me see!" Emmett pleaded, leaning right into Marty's personal space. "I deserve an explanation."

"Okay, here goes," Marty sighed, figuring he at least owed the guy _that_ much in recompense for the inexplicable run-around. He ripped out a fragment of the paper, apologetically offering it.

"What's that?" asked Emmett, making no move to accept, his grave, dark eyes fixed on Marty's.

"An explanation," Marty insisted, waving the clipping for emphasis. Emmett finally took hold of it, but Marty refused to let go, tugging ever so slightly in warning. "But you've got to promise me: don't look at it till you get the Key to the City." Watching Emmett's expression shift from anger back to confusion was curiously reassuring.

" _Huh_?" Emmett muttered under his breath, and it was in that moment Judge Erhardt Brown decided to come calling after his lately disgraced son. Emmett rolled his eyes impatiently.

"Just promise," Marty insisted, easing up on their tug-of-war, shivering at the residual static shock that passed between them (a frequent risk of working with Doc—past, present, _or_ future).

"Emmett!" Erhardt called, briefly poking his head out through the high school gymnasium-turned-exhibition-hall doors, hopefully not in a scolding mood. "Where are you, my son?"

"I'll be right there, Pop!" Emmett called hastily over his shoulder, and then looked right back at Marty. "Key to the City?" he asked with uncertainty. "I don't understand."

"And you _can't_ understand," replied Marty. "Not for a long time. It would do irreparable damage to—" _your timeline, which has already been meddled with_ "—to _something_. Just say you promise."

"Okay, I _promise_ ," said Emmett, in exasperated defeat, his breath leaving him in an almost relieved exhalation as Marty released the clipping. He put it in his pocket, gave a tiny conspiratorial smile that was so 1980s-Doc-like it _hurt_ , and turned to mount the stairs. He paused halfway up, his shoulders sagging. "Wait—I _will_ see you again, right?"

Marty looked on helplessly as Emmett turned to look back at him, forlorn over the short distance. "I guarantee it," promised Marty, as reassuringly as he could. The truth was, he felt like shit.

" _Emmett_!" Erhardt shouted from just within the building; Emmett was powerless to do anything except offer a half-smile and wave his slow, reluctant farewell before disappearing.

Marty sighed and watched him depart, belatedly returned Emmett's smile to the empty air, and then stared at his feet. _And now you wait_ , he told himself. _Just like you always do_. As adept as Marty had become, waiting wasn't fun. He sat down on the second-to-last stair, wondering how many times back in the future he'd sat on that very spot. It was boring, but manageable for about five minutes, although he still half expected his own version of Doc to come roaring up in the repaired DeLorean and whisk him away.

Instead, after about ten minutes, the truck that pulled up was labeled Hill Valley Mercantile Deliveries; the guy who got out was none other than Great-Grandpa William McFly. Willie ranted on his way past Marty about having heard from the Records Office that his son, Artie, had gotten hitched to some Canadian floozy. When he emerged seconds later with a sheepish-looking Arthur and a defiant-looking Trixie Trotter, more history became clear in a few exchanged words. Trixie _was_ Grandma Sylvia. You couldn't blame her for the stage name, Marty supposed.

"Hey, kiddo," Sylvia said, bending to fondly chuck Marty's jaw before joining William and Artie in the truck. "Chin up. If you ain't got nowhere to go, you know where to find us, all right?"

"See you later!" Artie called, leaning out the truck window. "Don't be a stranger, now!"

"Damn fool youngsters," William muttered as Sylvia squeezed into the truck. "Goodbye!"

Marty watched them drive off, the forlorn beginnings of a question forming in his mind. What if Doc _didn't_ come to retrieve him? What if the DeLorean's time circuits simply couldn't be repaired? He scooted to accommodate the crowd beginning to filter out of the high school gymnasium. He'd been faced with this conundrum before, in 1955: what if he _was_ stranded?

He waited until the crowd had thinned sufficiently to ask the dignified, silver-haired gentleman in a dive-suit with his helmet held under one arm—Dr. Douteux, he presumed—if Judge Brown and his high-spirited progeny were still in the building. The marine biologist paused mid-stride.

" _Alors_ , young man, they have departed by way of the back entrance," he said, and walked on.

"Swell," Marty sighed, getting to his feet, stretching uncomfortably. He stared at the crumpled newspaper in his hand, worrying at a scuff on the toe of his left jodhpur with the tread of his right. He wondered if he ought to hitch a ride out to the McFly residence, and then thought better of it; Emmett and his father felt like a more personal connection, so his course was set.

It took him longer to reach his destination than he'd planned, as cars were scarcer on the roads in this time and place than they'd been in any of the others. He walked from Hill Valley High School to the Brown Estate in just under thirty minutes; he might've made better time, but he was hesitant to rush, lest the DeLorean, _any_ version of the DeLorean, catch up with him. It didn't.

At long last, Marty dragged himself up the long driveway at 1640 Riverside Drive—with tie loosened, dusty suit jacket folded neatly over his arm, waistcoat unbuttoned—and knocked on the garage door. It swung inward at the slightest brush of his knuckle, leaving him framed in the doorway with sunset at his back as Emmett, still flight-suited and tousled, looked up.

"Marty!" he exclaimed. "I guess you _do_ keep your promises. Did you leave something behind?"

"As a matter of fact," said Marty, "I did. I was a bit too hasty saying goodbye. Can I come in?"

"My lab-space is your lab-space," Emmett replied, gesturing with his wrench before dropping it and swapping it out for a screwdriver. "As long as you don't mind me making a few repairs?"

"Nah, Doc," said Marty, closing the door behind him. He dropped into the nearest chair, exhausted, and perused the familiar surroundings. The pale, close-cropped blue carpet was comforting beneath the soles of his boots, and the MacPherson Instruments calendar was still open to October 1938, a sobering reminder. "I'm just glad to be inside before it storms."

"You've had your fair share of sorrows, haven't you?" Emmett asked, frowning at him.

"What I'm trying to say," Marty admitted, "is that I'm displaced. Homeless, if you like."

Emmett looked up from his work, screwdriver in hand, and gave Marty that dry, tilted grin he'd have recognized anywhere. "You mean you're a no-good, garrulous drifter?" he asked. "Marty, I needed no additional data to corroborate _that_ particular theory. What can I do to help?"

"I need a place to stay," Marty said, throwing caution to the wind. "I'll earn my keep, I swear. I'll stay on as your lab assistant in exchange for room and board. I'm good at taking directions; I've at least proved that much." He stopped short, breathless. "I'm hungry. I need a _shower_."

Emmett popped the wayward screw he'd been loosening onto the work-top with a flick of his wrist, setting down the screwdriver. He picked up a bowl with a spoon in it that Marty hadn't noticed before, took a bite, wrinkled his nose, and carried it over to the cook-pot. He scooped some more _Hasenpfeffer_ into it and handed it to Marty. "Slightly burnt, I'm afraid, but edible," he said apologetically. "Mother says she won't cook me anything until I finish what I've started."

"I don't care _who_ cooked this," said Marty, truthfully, digging into the stew, finding it actually pretty bearable. "You, your mom, whoever. I'm _starved_. Hey, what's your mom's name, anyway?" he asked, taking a moment to check if he'd scalded his tongue. "Can I meet her?"

"My mother's name is Edith," said Emmett, slowly. "I'm sure you'll meet her soon enough."

"Get out of _town_!" Marty exclaimed, taking another bite too quickly; the coughing fit that overtook him had the unexpected result of Emmett coming over to pound on his back. "Edith, Erhardt, and Emmett. You've gotta be joking. Is that a family tradition of vowels or something?"

"It's purely coincidence, or so I'm told," said Emmett, indignantly. "As for you needing a bath, I can certainly _smell_ that. You slept in those clothes, didn't you? Do you even have any others?"

"Nope," Marty said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Only the ones on my back."

Once he had finished eating and Emmett had finished tweaking the— _The static thingy_ , Marty's brain supplied unhelpfully—Emmett led Marty out of the garage and up to the house. If Emmett's parents were still awake and stirring, there was no sign of them as Emmett led him through the spacious parlor and up the main staircase. He paused several doors along the hall.

"You'll find a fully functioning bath and shower inside," Emmett explained. "Toilet, sink, mirror, linen closet, anything else you could want. My parents use the private one off the master bedroom, so nobody's likely to walk in but me." He paused, as if to think better of the statement.

"Right, right," Marty said, turning the doorknob. "You've gotta find clothes and stuff. That's cool." He opened the door, stepping into the tiled bathroom, and then turned to regard Emmett, who was staring awkwardly at the floor. "Uh, Emmett, listen, I— _thanks_. This means a lot."

"Don't use all the hot water," Emmett muttered, turning on his heel. "My room's right over here, and you can have the guest room two doors down. I'll bring what I can find, but it'll be long."

"I'll just roll up the cuffs," Marty said, _like I did with this suit, which you also bought for me, by the way, years from now._ "Seriously, kick me out when it's time. You're no rose yourself."

Marty was in the midst of the shortest, most scalding shower of his life when a brusque knock sounded at the door. Emmett entered cautiously, only the sound of his hesitation as he sat a pile of garments down on the toilet seat giving him away. Marty struggled to turn off the water, fumbling for the towel he'd hung over the bar just outside the curtain. He rubbed himself down perfunctorily and wrapped it around his waist, hyper-aware that Emmett was pacing just beyond his sight.

The back of his neck prickled as he drew back the curtain, stepping out into the cool air. Emmett stopped dead in his tracks, blinking rapidly at Marty's face, his chest, and his belly before staring out the frosted window. Marty was too entranced by the fierce suddenness of the blush that spread across Emmett's cheeks to even feel embarrassed. He cleared his throat.

"My turn," said Emmett, brusquely, gesturing at the toilet. "Your clothes are over there."

"I'll just take these and, _um_ ," said Marty, struggling to keep the towel in place as he dashed over to gather up the outfit, "go change in your roo—er, _my_ room—and wait for you there."

"Yes," Marty heard Emmett say as he made his way hastily into the hall. "That's best."

The guest room was elegant and comfortable, if somewhat dusty. Marty found his dirty clothes in a careless muddle at the foot of the bed, realizing Emmett must have removed them from the bathroom without his even knowing before returning with the fresh ones. Marty dressed slowly, glad to find, at least, that the underwear with which he'd been provided more or less resembled the ancestors of modern boxers and undershirt. Neither the trouser legs, nor the shirt sleeves were too long, and it dawned on him that these were probably clothes Emmett had worn when he was younger. The waistcoat was a bit long, but Marty could work with it.

He flopped on the bed without bothering to turn down the covers; it wasn't long before he was drifting off to sleep. His exhausted mind darted from distraction to fleeting distraction (Emmett's startled eyes: his bright hair, bright heart, and even brighter mind) until the door swung quietly open. Someone crossed the room in stocking feet, came over to sit beside him on the mattress.

"You look like hell," said Marty, thickly, and smiled up at Emmett as his heavy eyes opened. "Guess that haircut yesterday didn't do you too many favors, did it?" He reached up hazily, frowning at the slight bruise beginning to show along Emmett's cheek. "When did that happen?" he asked, brushing his thumb along the contour as Emmett's eyes widened. "Earlier today?"

"I hit the steering mechanism when my Electrokinetic Levitator crashed into that ugly-as-sin House of the Future," Emmett said, patiently guiding Marty's hand back to his side. Emmett's fingers were warm, curled gently around Marty's hand, making him shiver at the contrast in the cool air of the room. "It's not that late, you know," Emmett said. "It's only about seven-thirty."

"Maybe the movie theater's still running that Blast From the Past feature to coincide with the Expo," said Marty, hopefully, sitting up with an expansive stretch. "What d'you say we go catch the eight o'clock showing of _Frankenstein_?" he suggested. "It's an oldie, sure, but a goodie."

Emmett gave him the ghost of a smile, shrugging, and stared down at his lap. "You're awfully determined that I should see that film, aren't you, never mind that it came out seven years ago."

In a fit of impulsiveness, Marty took Emmett's hands. "It'll change your life, Doc. I know it."

 

 

**November 20, 1938**

 

 _Condescend to calm this riot in your mind,_  
_find yourself in time,_  
_find yourself in time_.

 

If Marty had been concerned about what Emmett's parents would make of a strange young man turning up on their doorstep and demanding to be fed and clothed in return for working for their son in endeavors of which neither of them quite _approved_ , then now he couldn't even remember why that had ever been the case. Erhardt had clapped him on the back at breakfast the morning after he and Emmett had gone to see _Frankenstein_ , had proclaimed that anybody so worldly-wise and motivated could only prove a positive influence on easily-distracted Emmett.

Edith, pale-haired and greying and _strikingly_ beautiful for a woman of her age, had bidden Marty to stand up, had given him a critical once-over in Emmett's old clothes before breaking into a wan, genuine smile. "We will need to get you better-fitting rags than these," she'd said.

Emmett had graduated from high school back in May, so it was little wonder he'd gone immediately to work in his father's law office. About a week or so after settling more firmly into the guest room with a whole slew of new clothes that Edith had commissioned from one of Hill Valley's reputable tailors, Marty had asked Emmett if he'd sent out any college applications.

"Well, I _wanted_ to do that," he'd admitted, busy scrubbing out the fish tank that had once held a breeding population of methanogens, "but Pop thought it'd be best if I took a year to work in the real world before sending any out. He said I could beef up my scientific portfolio on the side."

"Holy jeez, you could get into anywhere you _wanted_ ," Marty had replied, hard at work dismantling the tarted-up failure of a Potentiometer as per Emmett's instructions. "Just think about all of those Ivy League institutions out on the East Coast. Harvard, Yale, Princeton—"

"What's wrong with Stanford?" Emmett had asked. "It's right here in California, and it's known for respectable, if not _excellent_ academics. I don't think I'd like Boston. Too much snow."

"Yeah, I guess not," Marty had agreed, giving the wrench with which he'd been working a heavy yank, his mouth on autopilot. "That's not really your style, is it. We'd freeze our asses off."

Across the room, Emmett had paused and raised an eyebrow at Marty. "We?" he echoed.

"Well, yeah," Marty had replied, and it took his heart a few minutes to catch up with what he'd said; then, only _then_ , had it begun to pound. "It's not like I'm gonna stay and work for your dad!"

"I think that's exactly what he hopes you'll do," Emmett had said teasingly. "Because _I_ won't."

"I may be a people-person," Marty had said, "but I'm no law-man, no matter what Artie McFly might tell you. I'm no more a government spook than I am a patent officer, Emmett. I lied to everybody because I had to." He'd realized this was veering dangerously back into territory where he might have to explain the time-travel thing to Emmett, and he _so_ didn't want to have to do that, not yet. "I was, um, looking for Artie, actually. He's a long-lost cousin of my—my old man's, see, God rest his soul. The reason I know you wouldn't like Boston is because that's where I was born. Lots of Irish there. My dad was a McFly. Marty's just a nickname."

"Martin McFly of the Boston McFlys," Emmett had proclaimed, turning to face him. "That makes more sense than the rest of what you've told me, so I guess I'll have to believe it. Makes more sense than your name being Sonny Crockett, anyway, because who has a name like _that_?"

"I guess I should tell Artie we're related one of these days, huh?" Marty had sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's just—when I found him, sheesh, he seemed so stressed and pathetic. Working as a bookie for Kid Tannen and his creeps, can you believe it? Look at him now, much better off without those—those _buttheads_. Now he's got a kind, lovely wife, and they're moving out of Old Man Willie's place next month. I couldn't have asked to stay with them."

"Marty, tell them," Emmett had urged. "They'll be happy to know you really _are_ family. Sylvia may not be any blood relation, but she's taken a shine to you even faster than Arthur."

"Yeah, Doc," Marty had agreed, getting back to work. "That settles it. I think I will."

That had been two weeks ago. Now, it was mid-November, and the latest flap to come across local radar had been Orson Welles's disaster of a radio broadcast back on October 30th. Marty, Emmett, Artie, and Sylvia had listened with avid interest from inside the local greasy spoon; there'd been no doubt in any of their minds that it was an impressively effective work of fiction. The next day, Welles had made a public apology for the chaos he'd apparently caused in much of the rest of the country. Emmett's disdain for the gullible masses had known no bounds.

Even now, eleven days on, _War of the Worlds_ was Emmett's preferred conversation topic.

"The complete _idiots_ ," he raved, holding out his hand impatiently for the pliers, so Marty supplied them. "Who could possibly have thought aliens were _actually_ invading earth?"

"I don't know, Doc," Marty said, shifting his weight from an awkward crouch to sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Emmett while he twisted and tweaked a delicate strand of filaments. "Like Artie's old man says, there's a sucker born every minute, and this country's over quota."

"I like your cousins," said Emmett, an apparent _non sequitur_. "They're a pragmatic bunch."

"Believe me, if you'd known my parents," Marty replied, feeling his chest clench with fleeting, intense homesickness, "you might not have said the same. Well, no. It—it would've depended on _when_ you knew them. Things change, people change." He swallowed. "Times change."

Emmett put down the pliers, shifting his attention from the static thingy to Marty's face. He tilted his head quizzically, his inscrutable eyes narrowing as he studied Marty's expression, which must have been similarly unreadable to _him._ Good God, he _almost_ looked—

"Did you have any friends?" he asked. "Back out East, I mean. Before you left."

"A few," said Marty, evasively, but Emmett's eyes remained locked with his. "There was this girl I kind of liked," he continued, remembering Jennifer's reddish hair and hazel-green eyes, but they were less substantial in his thoughts with each passing day. "There were a few guys, too," he added, "and they were all right. We played music together, you know. Kind of like a band."

 _And I had you, Doc,_ he thought wistfully. _I had you with all these bells and whistles that the years haven't added yet, and, God, as close as you are to me now, I miss you so fucking much._

"I'm a fan of music," Emmett volunteered, relieved to have found something he could latch onto. Marty got the sense he was perpetually anxious that he might one day discover that the two of them actually had nothing in common. "I have Trixie's—er, _Sylvia's_ —recordings, and I've been known to indulge in jazz clubs now and again. I played saxophone at school, but I haven't touched it in a while," he said, waving in the direction of an instrument case in the corner that Marty hadn't noticed before. "I haven't played in over six months, so that's bad news."

"Hey, I play guitar," Marty said, perhaps too readily. "If I can save up enough for one of those used ones in the pawn shop, maybe kit it out with some new strings, we should totally jam."

"I don't see what canning preserves has to do with any of this," said Emmett, snorting as he reached for the pliers. "If you're into cookery, take it up with my mother. She'd be thrilled."

"No, you don't understand," Marty said, and then realized this wasn't just a case of Emmett being a perpetual literalist (his heart clenched to think of Doc, _his_ Doc, still like that even fifty years on). "It's like—okay, where I come from, right, in Boston? It's slang. It means _to play music together_. Improvise, if you prefer. For the fun of it, for practice, whatever. Jamming is fun."

"That's a relief," Emmett said, "because unless it's _Hasenpfeffer_ , I don't know how to cook."

"Do you like just tossing stuff in a pot and seeing how it turns out?" Marty asked, and then thought better of it. "What am I saying, of _course_ you do. You're a scientist. That's science."

Emmett looked up from his work, that light-bulb expression vivid in his eyes. "Marty, I'd never thought of it that way before," he mused. "Cookery as experimentation. That's revelatory."

"Maybe you _are_ more like your mother than you thought," said Marty, grinning. "But your dad knew that already, it looks like. So, what do you say? If I get my hands on some strings—?"

"You've got yourself a deal, McFly," said Emmett, grinning back. "Now, give me that clamp..."

That evening, they showed up five minutes late to dinner with ash-smudges on their cheeks, clothes, and the backs of their hands. Erhardt had a fit and sent them upstairs to wash while Edith muttered under her breath about _Dummkopf_ fathers who don't remember what it's like to be a young man. Marty and Emmett exchanged contrite looks only till they'd traipsed clear of the dining room; thereafter, they raced each other for the stairs, breathless with laughter, and spent the next ten minutes or so elbowing each other for space at the sink with damp washcloths in hand and their shirts unbuttoned. Marty stepped aside to let Emmett finish, watching intently.

 _Your hair's grown longer_ , Marty thought, _and you've stopped putting that stupid pomade in it_.

Emmett, realizing the room had grown quiet, stopped sponging his pale, freckled chest and held the washcloth briefly over his breastbone. "What?" he asked anxiously. "Did I miss a spot?"

"I, ah," Marty stammered, reaching for the washcloth before he could think of any better way to hide the fact that he'd been fucking _staring_ , "yeah, Doc, gimme that." Emmett surrendered the cloth to Marty willingly, turned just enough to let Marty bring the cloth up to the side of his face to wipe away some smudge that they both knew full well didn't exist. Marty swallowed.

"Jesus," he said, and his voice rang raw and husky off the tiles. "Why didn't you ever warn me you were a cute redhead, Doc?" asked Marty, dropping the cloth. _Fortunately, that's my type._

"One would've thought it was obvious, given your eyes work," replied Emmett, wryly, leaning forward a fraction; he touched Marty's cheek in kind. "And _why_ do you keep calling me that?"

Marty's pulse was trip-hammering about a million miles a minute; he couldn't think straight. Here he thought he'd come off all suave and debonair, but in reality _he_ was the one floundering, and Emmett had flawless control of the situation. "Calling you what?" he asked shakily.

"Doc," said Emmett, his lips quirked thoughtfully between a smile and a frown. He was studying Marty's mouth as if it were one of his equations that wouldn't neatly resolve.

"Because that's what I know you'll be," insisted Marty, mustering every last scrap of courage he had, and kissed Emmett right where it counted. Brief, dry, lips scarcely parted. "Someday," he said.

"I assume you're referring to my eventual pursuit of a doctorate," said Emmett, already turning scarlet from cheeks to temples, but he leaned in and kissed Marty back with a level of brash enthusiasm that was, quite frankly, _shocking_. "Let's work on getting me into a bachelor's program first, shall we?" he panted, finally pulling away. "We'd better get downstairs."

 _Oh my God_ , Marty thought, struggling to do up his shirt as Emmett did the same, already striding out into the darkened hall. _Did that really just happen, or are the lab fumes going to my head?_

Dinner was no-nonsense American fare, roast chicken with rosemary potatoes and glazed carrots on the side. It was more effort than Lorraine McFly would've ever put in, at least in Marty's original timeline where she'd been a drunk and almost as pathetic as Marty's father, George. Marty endured a gruff, Lutheran delivery of Grace from Erhardt, at which point the rest of them, Edith included, dug in without so much as an _amen_. Emmett spent the meal chattering about the progress they'd made on the Electrokinetic Levitator, not even letting Marty get a word in edgewise. He carefully avoided Marty's eyes, answering his mother's questions with flair.

Later that night, after enduring some family time in the parlor in front of the radio (at Erhardt's insistence; granted, reminders of the war brewing in Europe at Germany's instigation made everyone restless). Marty decided after about forty-five minutes that Erhardt's constant station-flipping wasn't going to result in anything other than further depressing reminders of the conflict Marty already knew about in painful detail by way of high-school history lessons; so, in the middle of some astonishingly anti-Semitic remarks from some douchebag priest named Coughlin, Marty got up and wished them all a good night.

Emmett gave him a questioning look, but didn't rise and follow Marty upstairs. "Sleep well," he said. "I'll see you in the morning. We're down at the courthouse tomorrow, remember?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Marty said, feigning a yawn. "Don't stay up all night."

After brushing his teeth and splashing cold water on his face to no avail, Marty went to his room and spent an agonizing five minutes jerking off to the memory of Emmett's hand on his cheek, Emmett's mouth warm and sure and inviting against his own. He lay there for another five minutes, a panting mess, wondering if this meant he'd been gay or bisexual or _whatever_ all along. His crisis of orientation didn't last any longer than that. He had a much, _much_ bigger problem. If Marty was thinking about this clearly, Doc was and always _had_ been the love of his life.

"Fucking _fuck_ ," he said into his pillow, using his discarded undershirt to clean himself off.

At breakfast, Emmett was infuriatingly chipper, so Marty limited himself to one- and two-word responses. Edith must've found that unusual, because she checked his forehead with the back of her steam-damp hand no fewer than three times throughout the meal. Erhardt was already at the office, she said, and was expecting Marty and Emmett sooner than not. They finished in a rush.

Marty didn't mind running errands for Judge Brown. Emmett was much better suited to the research-end of this particular gig, whereas Marty had the right disposition for serving subpoenas and shooting the shit with both local and out-of-town lawyers. He had some divorce papers to deliver at the florist's shop (the proprietress's husband, it turned out, was an abusive loser) right before lunch, so he decided he'd grab a bite at Artie's favorite café on the fly. Emmett was a big one for skipping lunch, and Marty just couldn't get behind that. He'd no sooner placed his order at the counter than somebody was tapping him energetically on the shoulder. He turned to find Sylvia, grinning from ear to ear, holding up her left hand.

"We finally got rings!" she exclaimed. "Wrong order of events, I know. Whaddaya think?"

Marty smiled and took hold of her wrist, studying the plain, delicate platinum (he now knew the difference by sight thanks to Emmett's metal-property tutorials) band and the prong-set diamond solitaire above it. Not a huge rock, maybe a half-carat at most, and, and _oh Jesus_ , he had seen this ring before. He'd played with it a thousand times at his grandparents' kitchen table while he'd sat there and chattered to Grandma Sylvia while she did the dishes and _sang_ —

"Hey, Marty," she said, patting Marty's cheek with her free hand. "Hon, are you okay?"

Marty dropped her hand, nodding too quickly for comfort. "Yeah, um. That's just great."

"You don't look so hot today," Sylvia said, steering him till he sat down on one of the stools along the counter. "Is that Edith slippin' in her maternalistic duties? Maybe once Artie and I get the apartment all furnished, you should come live with us. Those rich folks just don't _care_."

"I'm not sick," Marty said, handing her a menu. "Listen, Gra—Trixie— _Sylvia_ , I think—"

"Oh, _kiddo_ ," said Sylvia, affectionately patting Marty's arm. "You got a sweetheart, then? Is it lookin' serious? Talkin' about rings and all, where is my _head_ at? You poor thing! Tell me."

Marty rubbed his forehead and stared at the counter-top. "I think I'm being led on," he said.

"Tell me about it," Sylvia lamented, pointing to what she wanted, and the young black woman behind the counter, an enterprising new waitress named Letitia, thanked her. "Story of my life. We're lots alike, you and me, if you think about it. Cast out upon the merciless waters of the world at a young age to seek our fortunes," she lamented dramatically. "What's this girl like?"

"This individual is, is, _ah_ ," said Marty, stalling, "either really oblivious or _really_ afraid. My money's on afraid, because some of the, um, _actions_ in question kinda rule out obliviousness."

Sylvia sighed, resting her chin on her hands. "That's a tough one for sure. You tried talkin'?"

"Uh, no, actually," Marty admitted, gratefully handing Letitia an extravagant twenty-five cent tip (his sandwich had cost that, plus five cents more) as she brought out his food. "We haven't. _Well_. Not much, but maybe a little? We flirted, and then we kissed. Twice. It was... _heavy_."

"I dunno how to interpret your fancy Boston talk sometimes," said Sylvia, "but I can infer from context that these kisses mean a lot to you. _Did_ a lot for you, am I right?" she asked, winking.

 _Great_ , Marty thought, _just great. I'm getting sex advice from my twenty-something grandmother._

"All I know is that I don't wanna screw this up, okay?" he said instead. "It's really important."

"Oh, honey-pie," replied Sylvia, consolingly, and stole the gherkin off his plate. "It always is."

 

 

**December 24, 1938**

 

 _And I am waiting; should I be waiting?_  
_And I am wanting; should I be wanting_  
_when all around me, when all around me_  
_you document the world inside your skin—_  
_the tenor of your shins,_  
_the timbre of your limbs?_

 

"Marty!" Emmett exclaimed, bursting into the garage, nearly causing Marty to fumble too many pellets into the fish tank. He'd managed to convince Emmett that the methane-producing bacteria were not only foul, but also a waste of time; they'd set up the fish tank as an _actual_ fish tank with a pair of goldfish, one black and one orange, and a few jumpy neon tetras. "Look at this!" Emmett held up a newspaper, his hands shaking. "Four days ago, RCA successfully patented an electronic television system! Within a year, they'll be able to, I don't know, televise the World's Fair or something!" He dropped the paper and rushed to Marty's side, taking hold of his shoulders, whirling him in a decently-executed dance maneuver. "Merry Christmas _indeed_!"

Marty, feeling his cheeks heat, removed Emmett's hands from his shoulders as politely as he could manage. They hadn't spoken about that incident in the upstairs bathroom just over a month ago, not even  _once_. Sylvia hadn't gotten much more out of Marty on the subject, either, and not for lack of trying. Inspired by Marty's and Emmett's jam sessions, she'd decided to continue her singing career and was back on the local club circuit every couple of weekends. Willie was fit to be tied about it, but Artie managed to talk him down. Marty realized McFly history was now officially in full-on clusterfuck deviation territory, and there was _nothing_ he cold do about it.

"That's great, Doc," he said, reaching to pat Emmett's shoulders to ease the sting of what Emmett _might_ read as rejection. "Maybe we'll finally convince your old man that we ought to have one."

"Not likely," sighed Emmett, glumly, and took off his hat before shrugging out of his coat. "How's that time-sensitive experiment going?" he asked, walking over to check the cook-pot. "Are we going to have your new-and-improved take on the family rabbit-stew recipe for dinner along with Mother's goose, or are you going to back out of the deal if it's a flop?"

"It's Christmas Eve dinner, Emmett," Marty protested. "I just wouldn't _do_ that."

Emmett, who'd been busy making faces at the fish and lightly tapping the glass with his fingertips, straightened up and focused that legendary intensity right on Marty. "You used my name," he said. "My actual _name_. You haven't done that in weeks, Marty. What's changed?"

"It's Christmas Eve," Marty repeated, cursing his inability speak properly in the face of Emmett giving him a look that wasn't far off the one he'd given him before they'd kissed. "You, _um_ —look, this isn't easy to say," he sighed, and Emmett's face fell in anticipation of disaster. "God, no, jeez, don't _look_ at me like that, this is a _good_ thing I'm about to tell you, got it?"

Emmett sighed, relieved, stepping toward Marty. "Great _Scott_ , I've been worried—"

Marty didn't even get to say any of the things he'd been considering fair game. _We need to talk about why we're not talking_ and _You're more important to me than anyone else in the world_ and _If you don't get your ass in my bed, like, yesterday, I'm gonna explode_ become both irrelevant and appropriate given that Emmett was kissing him like _he'd_ been thinking of nothing else for weeks.

"Oh God," Marty whimpered, letting Emmett back him up against the work-top without so much as a second thought, and expounded further on the merits of his ability to follow instructions even when said instructions weren't even verbal. Emmett helped him shift up to sit on the edge without even breaking contact to breathe; Marty was already tugging his shirt free of his trousers and fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. "Emmett, _Doc_ , you've gotta slow _down_ —"

Emmett groaned in frustration, his hands stilling on Marty's even though he'd taken a step in the right direction when he'd decided to help Marty with his incompetent attempt to get his own belt unfastened. "I'm sorry, what am I _thinking_ , I always rush into things too quickly, I _shouldn't_ —"

"No, I mean somebody's gonna get _hurt_ ," Marty clarified, flashing Emmett a nervous smile, and removed his own hands from the tangle in order to let Doc finish what he'd unsuccessfully started. "If you don't get my pants off _right now_ , I'm gonna be totally pissed."

"That's a brilliant idea," agreed Emmett, glassy-eyed, and got both Marty's belt _and_ his flies undone in just a few deliberate movements that Marty couldn't be bothered to watch because Emmett's fingers, noticeably trembling now, had slipped inside Marty's underwear.

"Don't you dare kiss and run this time, Doc," Marty panted, canting his hips as Emmett began to stroke him with possessive, deliberate intent. "Jesus _Christ_ , that's so good, _yeah_ , I want—"

Three bangs sounded on the garage door, short and sharp. "Boys, if you don't get inside this _instant_ with that infernal toxic sludge you have the nerve to call _Hasenpfeffer_ , I'll—"

"Coming, Pop!" Emmett shouted, letting go of Marty so suddenly that he slipped off the work-top. "Oh _shit_ ," he hissed, brushing over his clothes in a panic before bending to help Marty to his feet, "are you all right?" Erhardt banged once more for emphasis, but his footsteps retreated swiftly, an angry crunch up the driveway. "Marty," Emmett sighed, "I'm afraid this will _have_ to wait until later. Besides, my bedroom will prove far more optimal—"

"Shut up," Marty sighed, uncomfortably tucking his hard-on back into his pants, putting his clothes back in order. "And I don't know how the hell you make talk like that sound sexy."

Emmett grinned at him, pressing close enough for Marty to feel that _he_ was pretty worked up, too. Marty couldn't help but feel sorry for his self-centered outburst; Erhardt had cock-blocked _both_ of them, and that wasn't cool. Emmett kissed him again, and Marty shivered.

"Doc, we've _gotta_ stop," he pleaded. "Think about your mom's roast parsnips or—or whatever, I don't _care._ Christmas dinner before presents, you know the drill. It can wait, honest."

 "I've kept you waiting long enough," said Emmett, apologetically, " _but_. Point taken."

Erhardt was already seated at the head of the dining-room table when they arrived shaking and hoping to God they didn't look as disheveled as they _felt_. Edith came in with the goose and roast vegetables on a platter, noting with approval that Marty had arrived bearing the cook-pot of rabbit stew. She wrested it away from him, presumably to transfer the contents to a tureen; Marty took his seat next to Emmett as quickly as Emmett had taken _his_ seat to begin with.

"It's nice to have this time together, isn't it?" said Erhardt, studying them critically. " _Well_?"

"Yes, Father," Emmett agreed, primly unfolding his napkin, laying it across his lap. "It is."

"Judge Brown," said Marty, using this critical moment as an opportunity to _focus_ , "the hospitality that you and your wife have shown me these past few months has meant, well— _everything_."

Erhardt nodded with a grunt of approval, apparently satisfied that the forms had been obeyed. Edith came bustling in, tureen in hand, her fly-away hair throwing red and silver sparks under the brightness of the modest chandelier, and said, "Don't pay him _any_ mind at all. It is our honor."

"Mother, can we just _eat_?" Emmett groused. "College applications and stew are hungry work."

"You have been working on them, then?" Erhardt asked, serving some goose, parsnips, potatoes, and beets onto his wife's proffered plate. "Let us go through these institutions of yours again?"

Marty knew Emmett's I-don't-want-to-discuss-this-in-detail look when he saw it, so he fielded the question while Edith took her son's plate for filling. "He's applying to Stanford and MIT," Marty told Erhardt, feeling uncomfortably like he ought to clear his throat when the man's judge-tastic demeanor kicked in as if to say, well, what _else_? "That's it, Your Honor. Just those two."

"Not Harvard?" asked Erhardt, disbelieving. "Or Princeton? What about Oxford? TU Berlin?"

"Boston's enough of a stretch," said Edith, defensively. "It's so cold there, let alone England. He would freeze. Be grateful he's put energy into choosing two good places. Emmett, I am _proud_."

"Pop, if you'd actually brought me up, how about this, _speaking German_ alongside English, maybe the latter would've been an option!" Emmett retorted, and then went pale. "And anyway, thanks but _no_ thanks. It looks like a second Great War's about to break loose over there."

"Go to school," said Edith, with fearful, fervent intensity. "Both of you, go to school _soon_."

"Enough of this for now," said Erhardt, sternly, and his expression softened somewhat. "These are both good schools, yes," he agreed in defeat, and Marty was sure it was because Edith's death-glare had him by the balls. "I suppose you will try your luck with them and see."

Emmett sagged a little in his chair, so Marty took his hand reassuringly under the table.

The remainder of the meal passed in a flurry of forced, anxious banalities. Marty almost wished it would snow, but who was he kidding: California was California no matter _which_ year you were sitting in. Emmett wiped his mouth and excused himself about two minutes after Edith had served some absolutely sinful-looking _Bienenstich_ , so Marty, as tempted as he was by the cake, made apologies for them both and followed Emmett upstairs. Emmett paused in the darkened hall, reaching back to take Marty's hand without so much as glancing over his shoulder.

Marty's heart pounded in his ears as he pulled Emmett's bedroom door shut behind them.

 _I've never even been to Boston_ , he wanted to say as Emmett sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled Marty along with him. _I don't even know what a winter like that feels like_ , he thought, falling into Emmett's embrace. _And I don't even know what I'm doing_ , he realized, but he let Emmett lay him down and unfasten his waistcoat, his shirt, his belt, and _then_...

"I wish I could read your eyes," Emmett whispered, getting up so that he could tug Marty's trousers and underthings off, discarding them on the floor. He crawled back onto the mattress, nudging Marty's thighs apart so he could kneel awkwardly between them, staring with eyes bright and hungry. "You're saying so much, saying so much all the goddamn _time_."

Marty trembled at the tone and register of those words, at the sheer familiar weight of what this young man, his dear old friend, was day by day _becoming_. "You'll learn," Marty said, reaching up to frame Emmett's face with both hands. "Just like I'm learning to read _you_."

"Well, I sure _hope_ so," Emmett said, smiling down at him, bending to peck Marty's cheek.

After that, they were lucky they managed to get even halfway undressed. Marty couldn't _believe_ he didn't give a shit that his socks were still on, and it was by sheer chance that _Emmett's_ socks came off in the tugging scuffle to even just get him naked from the waist down. Marty ripped a few of Emmett's shirt-buttons in an effort to even the score, but he stopped after he'd exposed enough skin to nuzzle, to dizzily _breathe_ against. He fell back on his elbows, and then his shoulder blades, pulling Emmett down against him by the hips. Fuck taking it slow, he _wanted_ —

"Doc," he moaned breathlessly, closing his eyes at the feel of Emmett pressed real and heavy and _warm_ against him. "Jesus, _Doc_." He didn't give a damn about what any of this might mean for his past self, or how it might've worried everyone he'd known back in 1985. This was _now_.

"Do you realize," Emmett gasped, apparently thrilled by the press of Marty's palms—one at his nape and one at the small of his back—"that I. _Marty_." He swallowed hard, kissing the side of Marty's neck, quickening the already urgent pace they'd set. "I _love_ it when you say that."

Marty wanted desperately to offer a clever answer, but he was coming before he'd even realized how close to the edge he'd been pushed. Emmett shuddered, working his right arm under Marty's neck, hooking the other under Marty's right knee. Whatever else the guy may be, clueless about using his grasp of human anatomy in order to make sure Marty enjoyed getting off was _not_ one of them.

Marty jerked in surprise, whimpering against Emmett's cheek.

" _Shhh_ ," Emmett hissed, easing Marty back down on the mattress as his shaking quieted. Marty fumbled weakly between them for Emmett's erection, so Emmett guided his hand. "Someone might—might hear, _oh_ ," he sighed, his eyes closing in contentment at Marty's touch.

"Your parents are downstairs listening to the radio," Marty whispered. " _They_ can't hear, but _I_ can," he continued, feeling braver by the second. "So how 'bout you just relax and _show_ me—"

And, oh, yeah, Emmett _did_. Marty hadn't been sure how this moment would strike him, watching Emmett's composure weaken and shatter at the mercy of something he couldn't control like he could a scientific experiment, but it was _great_. Emmett gave a strangled sob, so Marty held him.

It took several minutes for Emmett to catch his breath, and his full weight sagging suddenly against Marty knocked Marty's breath _out_ of him. They were sticky and gross and oh _Jesus_ , the bedspread was going to be a fucking _mess_. Marty was so inexplicably happy he squeezed Emmett tight about the middle, eliciting an indignant squeak from him.

"It wasn't _that_ good for you, was it?" Emmett muttered. "They say it rarely is for both—"

"Hey, don't worry," Marty said. "We've got _years_. It was good, and it can only get better."

"How can you be so sure, and so _quickly_ , that I'm the one? We've only known each other for about six months." Emmett's eyes were hazy; he regarded Marty with an expression that was simultaneously adoring and lost. "Is _this_ why you worked so hard to break me and Edna up? Thank goodness _that_ relationship didn't get beyond the kissing stage; God only _knows_ _—_ "

"Don't start with me," Marty said. "You hardly knew Edna from a hole in the wall, and—"

"Marty, this is dangerous," murmured Emmett, lowering his head for another kiss, and Marty was glad to oblige him. They drew apart lazily, faces flushed. "What are we going to _do_?"

"What everyone else does," Marty reassured him, leaning up until their mouths brushed. Emmett was still hard against Marty's thigh; they'd be ready again in no time. "We're gonna be careful."

 

 

**Epilogue: June 14, 1986**

 

 _Now, commence_  
_to kick each brick apart,_  
_to center on your heart,_  
_starting with your heart,_  
_bright heart_.

 

From their place seated side-by-side on the dais in front of the courthouse steps, Marty had a decent view of the assembled crowd. His eyes weren't what they used to be, but then, whose eyes _were_ in any kind of shape you'd call great past the age of fifty? He'd lost a couple of months in all of the skipping around that summer, he'd thought, but it had just made the most sense to insist his birthday was still June twelfth. By that reckoning, he'd turned eighteen on June twelfth in 1938; Emmett had turned eighteen on September fifth in that same year.

Marty scanned the crowd for familiar faces, lifting his hand to wave when he spotted Sylvia and Arthur in their lawn-chairs. To Arthur's right, Linda looked up from fiddling with her expensive watch and smiled, and her brother, Dave, was chatting away with Sylvia. Their parents ( _My parents,_ Marty thought, _sometime long ago and far away_ ) were out of town because George was on another book tour, but they'd sent their apologies by way of congratulatory flowers. They remembered the death of Emmett's parents in the 1946 crash as well as anyone in Hill Valley.

Emmett had attended Stanford with his father's blessing, and Marty had gone with him (even if not as a student; he'd made money playing gigs with various musicians on weekends, and that was that). Emmett had stayed on for graduate school, had been neck-deep in doctoral research when news of his parents' death reached them. They'd set up the scholarship trust shortly thereafter.

Two days ago, they'd celebrated Marty's sixty-sixth birthday. Emmett was smug about still being sixty-five, but Marty had pointedly remind him that his time was coming, too, and _fast_. It wasn't usually necessary to mention the fact Emmett's hair had gone white by the time he hit _thirty_ -six.

Marty shaded his eyes, squinting at a minor disturbance toward the back of the crowd. From the look of things, Biff Tannen was scolding one of his rambunctious twin boys while his wife, Jo, looked on with bored exasperation. Tiffany, who liked to be called Tiff, caught Marty's eye and waved. She was fifteen and bright, nervously proud, about to become the latest recipient of the _Edith & Erhardt Brown Scholarship for Young Scientists_. Beside her, Einstein jumped and barked.

"Those Tannen kids are trouble," Emmett sighed, plucking a pair of sunglasses out of the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. "I can't believe one of them turned out well enough to deserve funding."

Mayor Wilson arrived with only three minutes to spare, busy (and popular) guy that he was. He dashed up the stairs, flashing Marty and Emmett that easy, winning smile that Marty suddenly recognized as bearing startling resemblance to Letitia's. He couldn't help but wonder—

"Apologies for my late arrival," said Goldie, "but I have lunch with my grandmother on Saturday afternoons. Ms. Lettie Young thanks you for your patience. Shall we get started?"

 _That's just unbelievable_ , Marty thought, grinning as he shook the Mayor's hand. "That sounds like a fantastic idea," he said, transferring the contact with Goldie over to Emmett. _Amazing._

With practiced ease, Mayor Wilson called the crowd to order. He said a lot of the usual stuff about how it had been his pleasure and his privilege to serve Hill Valley in this hallowed civic capacity for so many years, but he also cut to the chase with surprising speed. Marty supposed that was the best way of doing things when it was like ninety degrees out and there were people far older than even Marty and Emmett there in the audience.

"For his contributions to the scientific community at both the state and national levels, as well as for his unfailing sense of duty and charity to this community," said Goldie, "we hereby bestow upon Dr. Emmett Brown Hill Valley's highest honor." He indicated that Emmett should rise, so Marty, quicker on the up-take, seized the initiative and offered Emmett his hand; they ended up rising together, but Marty made sure the spotlight was entirely on Doc. "May this Key remind you of our gratitude," said the Mayor, handing over the token, "to you _and_ to your parents."

The applause was uproarious, especially from Tiff and Einstein at the back. Why their dog had taken a shine to the kid, Emmett couldn't say, but Marty was sure it was down to the fact that she'd started hanging around the lab with intelligent questions a couple of summers back and just _hadn't gone away_. Marty hoped that Biff or Jo or _somebody_ would start maneuvering Tiff toward the front, because after Emmett made what would undoubtedly be a brief, awkward, yet unfailingly enthusiastic speech, it would be her time for recognition. The crowd roared on.

 "It's nice to have you back, Doc," Marty said, clapping him on the shoulder, admiring the Key.

"What do you mean?" Emmett asked. "You've had me all along, Marty. It's been forty-eight years."

"This _part_ of you, I mean," Marty clarified. "The brilliant Doc I always knew you'd become."

Doc gazed at the crowd, holding up one end of the Key, but his grin was for Marty, who held up the other. "Save it for the bedroom, baby," he said under his breath, tugging the newspaper clipping from his pocket. "You've got a lot of explaining to do," he added, passing it to Marty.

Eyebrows raised, Marty said, just loudly enough to be heard over the applause, " _That's_ a deal."


	2. Make Us Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And all I wanted was a shimmer in your shine / to make me bright_

**December 25, 1938**

 

 _I want you, thin fingers;_ **  
**_I wanted you, thin fingernails._ **  
**_And when you bend backwards,_ **  
**_I wanted you, I needed you—_ _**  
** _ _o_ _h, to make me better._

 

For once in his life, Emmett woke to find he hadn't been dreaming the warmth in his arms.

More than half of Marty's face was hidden in the pillow, his nose jammed into it at an angle that nonetheless looked truly uncomfortable. They were lying face-to-face on their sides, and Emmett had one arm draped protectively across Marty's hip. Emmett tugged Marty close, trying not to wake him, but it was no use; Marty stirred and curled into him with a yawn, tangling his legs with Emmett's. Emmett felt his pulse ratchet up a notch.

"S'early," Marty sighed, winding his fingers in the sweat-damp back of Emmett's pajama shirt.

 _You're so handsome you can't possibly belong here_ , Emmett thought, running his fingers through Marty's hair, because, unbelievable as it seemed, he'd been granted permission. _Oh, you're a sight_. He wanted to tell Marty he was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Edna could go hang.

Marty yawned again, stretching in Emmett's arms. He lifted his head just enough to look Emmett groggily in the eyes, and his expression was one of sleep-muddled, _adorable_ bafflement.  Sometimes, the simplest statements were most profound. And Emmett owed Marty a response.

"For the record," he whispered, with all of the courage he could muster, "I'm completely in love with you, too." He kissed Marty cautiously, his heart hammering; Marty's moan made him shiver.

"I sure hope so," said Marty, squirming till Emmett was sprawled half on top of him, "because last night was pretty amazing." He slid his thigh up between Emmett's, nudging Emmett's erection through the flannel of his pajamas (they'd grudgingly dressed before falling asleep, as, even with covers and each other for warmth, the room had grown cold). "I feel shitty about this," he sighed, "but I didn't have the chance to grab you a present. We're basically together _all the time_."  
  
Emmett closed his eyes, blissfully nuzzling Marty's cheek, his earlobe, his neck. "Then we're even," he admitted, "because I didn't get you anything, either. With all the tension there'd been between us, not knowing how to read it, I wondered if a gift would be construed as inappropriate."  
  
"Are you _kidding_?" Marty replied, pushing Emmett's waistband down so he could give Emmett's backside an experimental squeeze. "I lost my virginity on Christmas Eve to somebody I'm head-over-heels for. That's the best present in history." He paused. "At least I _think_ it counts, right?"  
  
Emmett had no idea, but logic told him they'd ticked all the important boxes: kissing, clothes off, hands in places they don't usually venture, prolonged full-body contact, and satisfying orgasms had by both parties. "Then are you up for a bit more deflowering?" he asked, intending for the words to sound clever, but he'd no sooner spoken them than he was convinced they'd come out wrong.  
  
"We'd better work on your pillow-talk, Doc," said Marty, laughing, although from what Emmett could _feel_ of Marty's gradually increasing hardness beneath him, he'd actually been successful.

"I don't know," Emmett ventured, no longer thinking clearly thanks to what had just come out of _Marty's_ mouth, catching Marty's earlobe between his teeth. "Seems effective enough to me."

"My mistake," replied Marty, his tone strained. "How 'bout I make it up to you with—"

Emmett kissed him until he stopped trying to talk, rolled and shifted them till Marty was lying flat beneath him just like he'd been when they started out the night before. He'd let Marty have the upper hand in their final stretch before dawn, but he wasn't anywhere _near_ finished gathering every piece of data he could possibly flush out concerning the sum total of actions that made Marty McFly, as they say in common parlance, lose his goddamn _mind_. Emmett unbuttoned Marty's pajama bottoms while he kept Marty's mouth busy, slipping his hand inside. Marty whimpered.

"Or how about _I_ make it up to _you_ now you're not so close to conking out that you won't be able to focus?" Emmett asked, putting his unabashed enjoyment of the way Marty's cock felt in his hand on hold. Marty bit his lip and held Emmett's gaze, a feverish tease, while Emmett unbuttoned his pajama top.  Emmett took a moment to strip down, tossing his pajamas on the floor; impatiently, Marty pinched the back of Emmett's thigh.

"You were tired, too," said Marty, peevishly, but he fell silent when Emmett got busy tugging off his pajama bottoms and discarded them with the rest. After a bit of wrestling, Marty's top followed.

Emmett pushed Marty back down against the pillows, taking a moment to study him in the scant, greyish light filtering in through his mother's ill-chosen lace curtains. He bent and pressed kisses along Marty's jawline, taking Marty's arousal in both hands. Marty trembled as he released one long, hissing exhalation; by the time Emmett had kissed his way to Marty's belly, he lay pliant.

"I could look at you all day," Emmett said, "but I'd really like a taste, too, if that's all right?"

"Oh my _God_ ," Marty groaned, pushing into Emmett's grasp. "D'you mean— _ahhh_ , please—"

 _I mean I want to suck you till you can't stay quiet any longer_ , Emmett thought, taking the head of Marty's cock in his mouth with only the slightest hesitation. _I want you to forget everything but me_.

Marty tasted like salt-prickled skin, like musk and traces of soap. Every time Emmett took in slightly more of him, Marty shuddered and choked back little sobbing gasps that made Emmett want to forget the whole enterprise and just hold him. _It's all right_ , he thought, licking tentatively now that Marty seemed jumpy, hypersensitive, too far gone to enjoy himself. Emmett took hold of Marty's right hand with his left, squeezing gently. He gave the base of Marty's cock a light twist with his right hand, letting his teeth graze along the spot he'd been paying the most attention.

"Oh, I _can't_ —" said Marty, his voice breaking on a cry that might've carried if Emmett hadn't been quick enough to let the head of Marty's cock slip from between his lips and lean up to cover Marty's mouth. Emmett stroked Marty firmly through his climax, utterly fascinated by the fact that Marty was all but screaming into the palm of his hand. He was also _painfully_ aroused, but it could wait.

After they'd fallen still for a moment, shared a breathless kiss, Marty lay boneless and flushed with his shaky fingers molded to Emmett's hipbones while Emmett stroked himself to completion. It was enough to just be with Marty like this, to see the stunned reverence in his eyes and _know_ —

"You're beautiful, Doc," Marty whispered, and Emmett was so lost in the pleasure of it, in the feel of being tugged down to lie against Marty while Marty's arms wound about his shoulders and Marty's fingers combed through his hair, that he almost didn't register the words. Marty sighed, holding Emmett till he'd finished muffling his cries in the pillow. " _Jesus_. Somebody must've..."

"Heard?" Emmett supplied as soon as he could bear to lift his head and start breathing normally again. "Not likely," he reassured Marty, nuzzling his mussed hair. "They're probably downstairs."

They decided that showering together was probably too much of a risk, so Marty cleaned himself off, staggered back into his pajamas, and darted across the hall as quickly as he could in order to wash up. Emmett rolled onto his back while he listened to the distant sound of the cold water sputtering to life and Marty yelping _Jeez!_ loudly enough to be heard through several walls. He blinked at the ceiling, hoping his parents actually _were_ downstairs, because the truth was that they would've heard _something_ even with their room situated at the opposite end of the hall.

The entire situation was dangerous, ridiculous, and the most _wonderful_ thing ever to happen.

Once he'd put on his pajamas and crept down to verify that his parents' room was actually empty, Emmett slipped into the bathroom just as Marty was drying himself off. Marty didn't object to being kissed just for standing there looking gorgeous, although he _did_ object to Emmett being dressed. He almost let himself be tugged back over the rim of the tub, only to hang back at the last minute with a hard-eyed, sensible look that never ceased to amaze Emmett when it manifested.

"We _will_ get caught if we're not careful," he said gravely. "I really meant what I said last night."

Emmett nodded, fiddling with the taps in defiance of the cold spray that caught him in the face. "Go get dressed," he sighed, reaching to tug the curtain shut, but Marty beat him to the punch.

If Erhardt and Edith were annoyed at Emmett and Marty for turning up forty minutes late to breakfast, then they'd chosen the better part of valor and didn't _show_ it. Edith kissed their freshly scrubbed cheeks and made a fuss of bringing them porridge she'd expertly flavored with cinnamon, cardamom, and honey. Even after eating the stuff every weekend for months, Marty's gobsmacked expression _still_ suggested he wasn't accustomed to breakfast that tasted this good.

"Boys, you must stop sleeping so late," said Erhardt, gruffly, the first words he'd spoken to either of them since their arrival laced with jointly muttered apologies. "No more bringing work inside."

"Sorry, Pop," Emmett said contritely, setting down his spoon. "We fell asleep trying to fix—"

"None of that," said Edith, sharply, coming back in with the teapot. "It is Christmas. Be kind."

"Mrs. Brown," interjected Marty, earnestly, "you're the best cook I've ever met. I'm just saying."

Emmett was in perpetual awe of Marty's ability to diffuse awkward situations by _being himself_ as insistently and forthrightly as he could. The remainder of breakfast was cordial, albeit rushed, and by the time Edith herded them off to the garland-and-greenery bedecked parlor, Erhardt was behaving in an almost amiable fashion. Emmett and Marty endured parcel after parcel containing crisp new articles of clothing; repeatedly, Emmett caught himself staring while Marty held up this waistcoat or that shirt for Edith to inspect and thinking that he couldn't wait to strip Marty _out_ of it.

Just when Emmett had resigned himself to the fact of observing piece after piece of teasingly tailored haberdashery, the final pair of gifts, in boxes too small to hold clothes, were delivered by Erhardt with a minimum of pomp and circumstance. Marty glanced at Emmett, questioning.

Emmett shrugged, taking the ribbon-adorned lid off his compact, yet sturdy card-stock box. Inside, there was a solid, hinged leather jeweler's case. It opened with a _snap_ , and an engraved gold pocket-watch inside tumbled into his lap. Marty reacted accordingly, opening his with care.

"If I cannot get you to part for five minutes," Erhardt sighed, glancing from Emmett to Marty, "then I shall get you to be on time together in the very _least_. I should have given you these last night."

Emmett offered profuse thanks on behalf of them both, not least because Marty was staring at the watch in his hands as if it held some secret, sacred significance. He nodded in vague agreement.

Once they'd handed over the gifts they'd gotten for Edith and Erhardt, Emmett won them leave to take the things they'd received upstairs for purposes of putting them away. While Edith went back to the kitchen to work on the slow-burn cookery, pun surely _not_ intended, for luncheon, Emmett lay with his head in Marty's lap while Marty stared at both watches and went on saying nothing. They kissed and joked and stuck the watches in each other's waistcoat pockets, drowsed fully-dressed on Marty's bed until Erhardt shouted for them to come back downstairs.

They were lucky to get away after the midday meal had ended, citing the excuse that Marty's cousins _did_ at least deserve a visit, however brief. Edith fetched their coats and patted their cheeks as she saw them out the door, as if it were any other day and they were off to the courthouse.

Emmett drove them downtown to the new apartment, into which Arthur and Sylvia had moved the week before, only to discover after Marty had hung on the doorbell for a solid five minutes that nobody was home. He smacked his forehead, getting back into the car, saying that of _course_ he should've known they wouldn't be home, Christmas at Great-Grandpa Willie's had always been a _thing_.

"But I don't think William is even a _grandfather_ just _yet_ ," said Emmett, reticently, "unless Sylvia—"

"I mean, ah, jeez, _no_ , of course she isn't!" Marty exclaimed, rubbing the side of his face, staring distractedly out the window. "What I meant was, _well_. You know how the older generation is."

"Of _course_ I do," Emmett reassured him, pulling back into the road. "We endured it all morning."

It was difficult to think of Sylvia as anything other than Trixie, but Emmett was getting better at it. Still, it was _especially_ difficult given she'd jazzed up one of her lounge dresses with red and green sequins and clipped peacock feathers in her hair. She kissed them both on the cheek and then dashed out of the hall again, leaving Arthur to stammer his holiday greetings and take their coats to the linen cupboard in the next room. Sylvia came back to find Emmett and Marty staring at each other on the threshold to the parlor, uncertain of where William, their _actual_ host, was.

"Oh," said Sylvia, glancing at a fixed point in space above their heads, and then back down at them, all in quick succession. "Oh, _gosh_. Marty! I getcha. Aren't you two just the prettiest picture?"

Marty rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the floor, blushing. "Well, let's not be _too_ —"

Sylvia winked, pointing to the lintel above their heads. The sprig hanging there was real mistletoe.

"Tradition's tradition, I guess," said Emmett, pressing a soft, restrained kiss against Marty's cheek.

It wouldn't have been so bad if William hadn't walked in and looked at them as if they were _nuts_.

"What's this?" he asked, eyeing Sylvia as if he already held her responsible. "Some kind of joke?"

Arthur, in a fit of unprecedented, undeniably _impressive_ quick thinking, breezed in and did exactly the same thing to Sylvia, Emmett, Marty, _and_ his father in deliberate succession. He beamed.

"Merry Christmas, everyone!" he said, blushing to the roots of his hair. "Now, who wants pie?"

 

 

**October 20, 1946**

 

 _We're not so starry-eyed anymore,_  
_like the perfect paramour you were in your letters._  
_And won't it all just come around to make you?_  
_Let it all unbreak you to the day you met her—_  
_but it'd make you better._

 

Emmett yawned, rolled over, and switched off the radio. Why he'd thought rigging up an alarm clock such that its reverberations would switch on the morning's broadcast was anybody's guess; it spoke volumes, he supposed, that he'd left the damn set-up in his room at his parents' house.

Marty came back in from his bathroom-run, wrapped in one of Emmett's old dressing-gowns, and vaulted back under the covers. He landed against Emmett with an _oof_ muffled in the crook of Emmett's neck, and then reached right over Emmett's shoulder to turn the radio back on.

"Your parents won't be back from church for like another half-hour," he said. "I wanna keep up with the clean-up over there, okay? Syl says Artie should be coming home any time now."

"He's one lucky bastard," Emmett sighed. "She and little George don't know how fortunate—"

" _Shhh_ , we're missing it," said Marty, tucking his head under Emmett's chin. "I'm sure they do."

They listened for a while in silence, but the most interesting news amidst any of it was that they'd decommissioned some old aircraft carrier several days before. Marty sighed and turned off the radio, snuggling in for a kiss by way of apology. Inevitably, Emmett forgave him, let their lazy momentum roll him over so that Marty was smiling down at him with endearingly crinkled eyes.

"I know you only care about the science stuff, Doc," he said, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against the side of Emmett's neck, and Emmett's mind went blank. "I know you're waiting on the results of that camera expedition out in New Mexico that's gonna try to take the first picture of earth from somewhere way the hell up in-atmo, and I also know you want us to get back on the road ASAP so you can get back to your stuffy advisor and your boring SRI meetings in Menlo Park."

"The Research Institute will do a _world_ of good," Emmett insisted, but it was difficult to keep his thoughts fixed on matters related to Stanford and his doctorate-in-progress when Marty wasn't wasting _any_ time ducking under the covers so he could take Emmett's hard-on in his mouth.

" _Mmhmmm_ ," Marty said, swiping his tongue in one maddening stroke just beneath the head.

"I don't know why I tolerate this," Emmett panted at length, already far too close for comfort.

"I do, Doc," Marty reminded him, pulling off just long enough to let his clever fingers _slip_ —

While Marty held him, shaking as climax took him without warning, easing them down, the doorbell rang downstairs. He swore and buried his face in Emmett's hair, squeezing Emmett's hand.  "If Pop forgot his keys again," Emmett muttered, reluctantly disentangling himself from Marty's embrace, "I swear to _God_. It's been a while, hasn't it? We're overdue some humiliation."

"Stay put," sighed Marty, stretching, and got up. He found the bare minimum of clothing he'd need to answer the door in presentable fashion, straggled into it piece by piece, his frown deepening as the doorbell chimes grew more frequent and frantic. "My turn to make the run."

Emmett found his discarded dressing-gown, put it on, and sat down on the edge of the bed. His parents weren't foolish, and they certainly weren't blind. Not after eight years of Marty living with him in tiny, cluttered dormitory rooms and two-bedroom flats in which only one bed ever got used (and in which Marty's musical paraphernalia took up just as much space as Emmett's unceasing experiments). After the first three years of them coming home on Emmett's academic holiday breaks, Edith had quietly caught on and stopped preparing Marty's room. Erhardt reacted by refusing to acknowledge what he knew full well to be true, stubbornly continuing to treat Emmett and Marty like a pair of mismatched twin sons.

Emmett raised his head at the sound of voices down in the parlor. Marty's pitch and urgency raised word by word to match their visitor's, and Emmett realized only too late why her voice was so familiar. He belted his dressing-gown and leapt to his feet, rummaging under the bed for a pair of slippers, but his actions were futile. By the time he got up off his hands and knees with slippers in hand, he was no longer alone in the bedroom.

Edna Strickland, in her Sunday finest, stood ashen-faced in the doorway with Marty hovering at her side. That Edna looked pale and pinched was not, to Emmett's memory, unusual, but the expression on Marty's face _was_. It was one of sheer distress, and by the time Emmett realized he'd dropped the slippers and rushed to take Marty in his arms because those were _tears_ glinting unshed—

"I'm so dreadfully sorry to be the bearer of bad news," said Edna, with curious detachment as she regarded Emmett, "but your parents' automobile was front-ended by a delivery truck a few hundred yards up the road from Holy Trinity. I'm afraid the report isn't optimistic. Your father—"

"Dead on the scene," Marty cut in, covering his mouth, and Emmett pulled him closer, elbowing Edna aside. "Jesus, I won't sugar-coat it. Your father's gone, and Mo—your _mother_ —" Marty's voice cracked as he succumbed to the sob caught in his throat, and Emmett gathered him close, pointedly ignoring the brash, hitching gasp from Edna behind them. "Your mother's hanging in there, Doc.  We've gotta get to the hospital, _stat_."

Emmett was too shocked to respond, couldn't fathom the reality of what he'd just heard except in terms of his lover's grief. Dry-eyed, wordless, he led Marty over to the bed and urged him to sit down on the edge. He glanced at Edna, who stood there in her dark floor-length skirts and solemn hat with wide, disapproving eyes. Emmett felt a sudden rush of anger as he sat down beside Marty, taking him in his arms again without hesitation. How he ever could've been infatuated with the woman ogling them like they were some side-show curiosity, he couldn't even begin to _guess_.

"Why don't you ake yourself useful, Miss Strickland," he snapped, "and go fetch some water."

"I'll fetch you nothing of the sort, Emmett," said Edna, coldly. She turned and left the room.

Meanwhile, Marty had begun to sob in earnest. There was something in the sound of it, in the broken set of his shoulders, chilled Emmett to the bone. He knew that Marty had likely had a hard life back in Boston, what with having grown up poor and having lost his family, but there was some depth of grave and all-encompassing sorrow here that Emmett couldn't possibly begin to fathom.

"We'd better get dressed," he said numbly, stroking Marty's hair. "If there's a chance Mother might survive, then that's where we should place our hope," he continued, with resolution he couldn't quite bring himself to believe. "Tragedies come to us all in our turn, Marty. There's no escape."

Marty lifted his head from Emmett's shoulder, looking absolutely _devastated._ "You might've escaped this if I'd never waltzed into your life and screwed shit up," he hiccuped. "Believe me, Doc. I have no idea what the case was before, because, y'know, I never really thought it was polite to ask, but I _swear_ this probably wouldn't have happened if I'd just had the sense to steer clear—"

" _Shhh_ ," Emmett whispered, clutching Marty tightly enough to shake him in the process. "What _is_ this? You're raving. There's no logical chain of reasoning to suggest that your coming into my life could _possibly_ have tripped off some kind of—of butterfly effect resulting in my father's death. _Please_ , Marty. Be sensible. Let's get to the hospital as quickly as we can."

"Yeah," said Marty, pulling away just enough to wipe his nose on the back of his hand. "Yeah, Emmett. Okay. How about you get dressed while I go out and fire up the truck."

When all was said and done, they'd spent eight hours at Hill Valley General. Edith Sarah Von Braun, legally Brown, _née_ Lathrop—otherwise called _Mother_ —did not last even half the night.

Emmett took his turn to look away and stare hard at the wall as Marty, tearful but alert, listened to what the doctor had to say. Emmett listened as Marty said that they understood there was nothing else to be done; he felt Marty's fingernails dig into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The doctor explained that they should leave and get some rest, that they'd already called the undertaker to make arrangements for collection once the autopsies had been completed. Marty thanked him.

"We're very sorry, Mr. Brown," said the doctor. "Mr. McFly. They meant a lot to this town."

Marty nodded, taking hold of Emmett's hand as he rose, tugging to indicate that Emmett should follow. "They meant the world to me," he said, "but they meant even more to their son."

Emmett stared out the passenger-side window while Marty drove them back to the Estate, watching the scenery pass. They'd have to call the undertaker to follow up; there would be the matter of payment, the matter of arranging for flowers, the matter of arranging a service...

"I don't want you to think about this," Marty said, his voice hard. "You shouldn't have to deal with this. I'm gonna to take care of it. I'm gonna take care of everything. I'll do the talking for you."

Emmett reached across the expanse of seat between them and set his hand reassuringly on Marty's thigh. "You lost them as much as I did, Marty. We'll split the duties we owe, and that's that."

Marty took one of his hands off the wheel and clasped Emmett's hand. "All right," he said.

There were a surprising amount of tears to be shed and a shocking amount of sleeping to be done. Marty fell hardest into oblivion, so Emmett left him to it on rising the next afternoon after a dreamless twelve-hour stretch. Instead of eating, he showered, dressed, and drove to the funeral home by himself. He begged Marty's forgiveness a dozen times in his head, but it sounded wrong.

The undertaker, who'd been patiently waiting for him, was amenable to everything in the monologue that Emmett had prepared. He asked if the minister ought to be invited to say a few words. Emmett shrugged, saying he'd leave that to custom. The undertaker nodded, asking if Thursday would work for the service. Emmett said that it would, yes, thank you, but all he could think was that he'd miss his Research Institute meeting in Menlo Park. He left, but not before reassuring the undertaker he'd look over the will and see how much was at his disposal.

That was how Marty found Emmett roughly an hour after he'd returned: seated in the library with his parents' printed-parchment will, stiff and yet strangely forgiving, open in his lap. He set both hands on Emmett's shoulders, pressing his lips against the top of Emmett's head.

"I guess we don't need a lawyer, huh," he sighed. "You're better trained than anyone. And you shouldn't be worrying about money right now, because I don't even have to _look_ at that to know they left you a ton of it. The funeral's covered. Your future's secure. You'll finish school."

"Marty," said Emmett, taking hold of Marty's wrists, gently stroking, "you _should_ take a look."

"Jeez, Doc, _no_ ," Marty pleaded, burying his face against the back of Emmett's neck. "I feel almost human again, and here you want me to go looking at their last wishes. No thanks. Not right now."

" _And to Martin Seamus McFly_ ," Emmett read, too touched to articulate how much these very words meant to him, " _my legal ward and my son's habitual companion, I do hereby leave_ —"

"I called Professor Wyatt while you were out," Marty interjected, knocking the parchment out of Emmett's hands. "Before I passed back out, I mean. The old bat says you're off the hook till end-of-next-week." Marty sighed, slumping. "Look, I'm sorry. I can't do this right now. I thought I could, but I can't. There's no way I can explain to you why I feel guilty, so I won't try."

Emmett sighed, tugging Marty around to the front of the chair. He pulled Marty into his lap, which wasn't so difficult given the height and frame disparity in spite of the fact they were the same age.  "Marty, you are in no way culpable," he said, touching Marty's cheek. "Do you understand?"

"No," replied Marty, in tears again, vehemently shaking his head, "but I'll try. Good enough?"

"More than that," said Emmett, letting Marty dab at the corners of _his_ eyes in turn. "The best."

 

 

**August 1, 1962**

 

 _I sung you your twinges;_  
_I suffered you your tattletales._  
_And when you broke sideways,_  
_I wanted you, I needed you—_  
_oh, to make me better._

 

After his last student of the evening called to cancel, Emmett closed up shop early on his office hours, feeling vaguely out of sorts. Hill Valley Community College was within reasonable biking distance of the Estate, so that was his favored mode of transport this week given the weather had turned unexpectedly breezy. Marty was playing a gig in Palo Alto with the Starlighters, so Emmett got Italian take-out on his way home.

Copernicus was waiting for him at the garage door, tail thumping happily against the driveway.

"There's a good boy," said Emmett, scratching one-handed behind the dog's ear while he set the take-out bag aside with the other. He got the door open and ushered Copernicus into the lab, retrieving the food before stepping inside himself. It was easy enough to parcel out a bit of ham tortellini for the dog, just as a treat, while Marty wasn't there to scold him for it. He put the rest on one of the plates he made a point of keeping in the lab for himself, walking straight over to the work-top instead of taking a seat. He'd dug some old inspiration out of storage that morning.

Emmett ate standing up, studying the badly wrinkled sketch he'd made about seven years back. Marty had fussed over the cut on his forehead to no end, had insisted he rest instead of raving about flux capacitors and the possibility of making time travel a reality. Unbelievable stuff, of course, and just the kind of thing that young George McFly had proved so adept at setting down in print.

 _One point twenty-one jigowatts_ , he thought despairingly, poring over the page of calculations he'd drawn up on his lunch break between teaching physics classes to surly undergrads. _I'd need a nuclear reaction to generate_ —

"Damn," he said, realizing he'd lost his appetite, setting what was left of his pasta on the floor so Copernicus could finish it. " _Double_ damn, at that. It simply can't be done. Wait, _unless_..."  Even assuming that a quantity were to present itself on the black market, sufficient plutonium to carry out the requisite number of trial runs would cost far more money than he'd been left (and not even his salary at HVCC would carry the slack). He sighed, picked up both the flux capacitor sketch and his equations, and walked over to the twin bed in the corner. It was the one Marty had slept on in the guest room for years; therefore, he found it a comfort to keep around.

"Come on, Copernicus," he sighed, patting the sheets beside him; the dog obeyed. "How about you keep me company while I run these numbers again. Maybe we'll get lucky, and I'll have made an error."

Three hours and four weary passes later, the answer was still the same. Emmett _wasn't_ wrong.

Dreaming with foresight, insight, or _anything_ resembling clarity was not a frequent occurrence in Emmett's existence. It was why that sketch had meant so much to him at the time, proof of something that had come to him fully formed and somehow perfect. He fell into a light, uneasy doze, calculations scrolling _ad infinitum_ against the backs of his eyelids. Abstractly, he wondered what it might mean to leave one's own time: to land, fully formed and perfect, in entirely _another_.  The shrill, repetitive noise in the distance that had been sounding for a decent while was _not_ what woke him. It Marty's voice—strident, wholly _afraid_ —and the feel of being roughly shaken.

"—don't know how you couldn't have _heard_ it, Doc, Jesus!" Marty was shouting, looming over Emmett as his fingertips dug with painful desperation into Emmett's shoulders. "Fortunately, there's no smoke, so I think it's a false—"

"Marty, calm _down_ ," said Emmett, yawning, stroking Marty's forearms soothingly from wrist to elbow. He was still dressed in his performance clothes (well-cut charcoal suit trousers, no jacket, collared white shirt with the sleeves rolled up), and _God_ was he a sight for sore eyes. "The detector's old and needs new batteries. I've always been lazy about changing them."

"Yeah, well," said Marty, yanking his arms out of Emmett's grasp, and it was only then that Emmett noticed Marty's jacket and guitar case abandoned on the floor, "you're gonna get _un_ lazy as of right this minute. I thought you were up at the house, Doc. I thought..."

Without warning, Marty collapsed in Emmett's open arms, and Emmett abruptly felt like the worst person on earth. Indeed, for all Marty knew, the house might have actually been on fire, and he might actually have been _in_ it. He fished the flux capacitor drawing and his calculations out from between them so he could pull Marty closer, but Marty caught his wrist and stared at them.

"Emmett," Marty said, his voice so low and ominously quiet that Emmett could easily believe that perhaps the house was burning after all and Marty was just trying to spare him the heartache, " _no_."

"But what if time travel turned out to be possible?" Emmett pleaded, trying to pull Marty close a second time. "Just think of the possibilities! Think of what we might learn, what we might achieve! I understand your reservations. Most things worth doing are dangerous, haven't we learned that? I'd like to try this one day if I'm able, Marty, and I want you right there at my side."

Marty sighed, sagging onto the mattress, settling heavily against Emmett. "All right, Doc, I'm gonna make a deal with you," he said. "Until such time as plutonium can be _legally obtained_ —"

Emmett froze at the sound of those words, as if someone had walked over his grave.

"—or, or, you know, _ah_ ," Marty continued, "kryptonite or _whatever_ it's gonna take—"

"Kryptonite isn't real, Marty," said Emmett, flatly, "but plutonium, in the very least, _is_."

"That thing's not gonna run without major firepower," Marty said, finally looking Emmett in the eyes. "I don't need to be a math genius or a physics prodigy to know that. I didn't sneak into your notes and steal your thunder, okay? Lucky guess. But nuclear shit, Doc? _Really_? That's a _risk._ "

"Not as big a risk as loving you every day of my life," Emmett sighed. "And you're worth it."

"Then _listen_ to me, come up to the house, and help me turn that damn thing off," Marty said.

Copernicus whined in agreement, thumping his tail tentatively down at the foot of the bed.

"What you're saying makes perfect sense," Emmett replied. "What are we waiting for?"

"Love ya, Doc," Marty sighed, leaning in for a kiss, "but you'll be the death of me yet."

 

 

**Epilogue: June 14, 1986**

 

 _Did it make you better,_  
_make you better?_  
_And all I wanted was a sliver to call mine,_  
_and all I wanted was a shimmer in your shine—_  
_to make me bright._

 

Once Mayor Wilson's ceremony was over, the Key to the City was packed up in the back of the DeLorean, Einstein had been forcibly extracted from Tiff's custody, and they'd endured congratulations from friends and family, Emmett offered to take Marty out to dinner before driving them home.

Much to Emmett's surprise, Marty refused, citing the fact that it had been a long day.

"Pity this is just for show, isn't it?" Emmett said as they pulled up the long drive, finally bringing the car to a halt, reaching back to pat the flux capacitor. "It's on days like this I'd like to think _—_ "

Marty undid his seatbelt, reached into his pocket, and produced the newspaper clipping with a sigh.

Emmett took it off Marty's hands, running his thumb across the date as he'd done so many times in the past. The fragment of paper was so yellowed and worn that he was astonished it had survived.

"First off, thanks for never pushing," Marty said. "In the past, I mean. I couldn't have dealt with telling you, not even that afternoon in sixty-two. Although I think maybe that's when you started to figure it out, right? Like maybe there was the distinct possibility I wasn't your average drifter."

Emmett nodded slowly, running his thumb over _June 14, 1986_ again and again. "It was the first time I _seriously_ considered the possibility that you'd come from farther away than Boston, yes."

"I didn't do a very good job of hiding the fact that there was something fishy going on, let's be fair," Marty sighed, letting Einstein lick his hand as a fortifying distraction. "But you were generous enough to let me have my elaborate fiction for as long as I needed it. Forty-eight _years_."

Emmett nodded somewhat dizzily, folding the paper with reverence. "I spent every moment wondering if the fact that you'd stayed my hand meant none of this would ever happen, that you'd be taken from me one day, in a heartbeat, out of the blue. It wasn't easy, Marty. I won't lie."

"And _I_ spent every moment wondering if I'd vanish, too, Doc," said Marty, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and Emmett knew then that the floodgates had opened at last. "I've seen it happen. I saw two different versions of you wink out: one struck by lightning while spinning in this goddamn machine, _fully functional_ , at eighty-eight miles per hour, and once just... _gone_ , just like that, before my very eyes. A version of you from a 1986 that should never have existed. I found the you that got struck by lightning, though. You ended up in 1885; your 1955 self helped me go back and retrieve you. That didn't work out so hot, though, because you met this lovely woman named Clara and stayed behind to _marry_ her, except then you went and invented a time-train..." Marty trailed off, casting Emmett a fearful glance. "The you from alternate-1986 married Edna and founded a creepy totalitarian state. It was really, _really_ not cool, Doc. And now my heart hurts every time I think about this shit, because I wonder if I've somehow deprived you of happiness with Edna or Clara or _—or_ —for fuck's sake, I don't even know why I still exist in this timeline! I wasn't even _born_! George and Lorraine have two kids, not three, and we love 'em like our own."

"I always thought I could see that spark in you," said Emmett, distantly, finding this nearly too much to bear when faced with it as a confession. "And I don't mean anything you got from William or Artie, either. You take after Sylvia and Lorraine in the _best_ of ways, your McFly traits aside."

"I don't know how alternate timelines work," Marty sighed. "They all seem to exist at once unless you set out to take one down with a vengeance. I guess nobody decided to take this one down."

Emmett stuck the newspaper clipping back in his pocket and finally turned to face Marty, reaching for his hands. "I can't imagine what you must have gone through when you got stranded here," he said slowly, each word almost too terrible to speak. "What you must have lost—your friends, your family, a version of me you knew and cared for who wouldn't exist for _decades_ yet to come."

"I guess this is what we've got," Marty said. "And I'm really _glad_. It could've been terrible."

"But I want you to think about it this way," said Emmett, bringing Marty's hands up to his mouth, kissing each one in turn. "Maybe there are other timelines, other worlds, other _universes_ in which I also chose you." He paused to take a breath, blinded by Marty's grin. "My point is, Marty, that I chose you here, I _choose_ you even now, and I'll _continue_ to do so even with my last breath."

Marty nodded, biting his lip, staring through the windshield while Einstein lapped at his cheek.

"Can't top that," he said, laughing through his tears. "FYI. You win everything, Doc. Forever."

"Has that been your one constant?" Emmett asked, retrieving a handkerchief from the glove compartment, offering it to him. "No matter where or when you've known me, even, and no matter what?"

"Has _what_ been a constant?" Marty asked. "Sorry, I think I missed the question. My attention span's shot."

"Calling me _Doc_ ," Emmett replied, smiling while Marty blew his nose. "Insistently, without cease."

"Yeah," said Marty, tossing the handkerchief aside. "But it's _us_ that's been the constant, d'you see?"

"I get to spend a full life with you," Emmett said. "I _do_ see. That means I'm the luckiest _me_ of all."

"Aw, _jeez_ , this shit's heavy," Marty sniffed. "I kinda miss the old days. Got any plutonium yet?"

"I've decided I don't want any," Emmett admitted. "Although if _you_ really wanted, Marty, I'd—"

" _Hell_ no," said Marty, winking. "But you _did_ promise me something involving the bedroom?"

"As long as you saved whatever-it-was," Emmett agreed, "then I'm entirely happy to oblige." 


End file.
